


Sometimes Even Music Cannot Substitute For Tears

by whitenoise27



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Post-Series, at least it's Phryne I'm torturing this time, because that's apparently all I write, instead of Jack, references to canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23948797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitenoise27/pseuds/whitenoise27
Summary: Phryne was sitting on the window bench in the parlor, knee hugged to her chest as she looked out at the garden. The overcast sky couldn't decide if it wanted to rain or not, and had compromised with an intermittent, half-hearted drizzle. The dreary grey twilight outside matched her mood. This wasn't how she'd wanted it to be.Does what it says on the tin - this is the most on-point title of anything I've ever written. Follows series canon but assumes the movie didn't happen and Jack didn't follow her to England. (My go-to excuse is the Great Depression.) Phryne comes back from England on a bad day, Jack does his best to help.
Relationships: Jane Fisher & Phryne Fisher, Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 17
Kudos: 92





	Sometimes Even Music Cannot Substitute For Tears

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not normally this prolific, and I don't know how long this posting pace will continue. I'm mostly just trying to do my part to keep everyone in fresh reading material while we're all stuck at home. This one's a bit sad, and while the ending is... hopeful?... I wouldn't exactly call it happy, so self-care as you need to. (Don't worry, I don't sink the ship - it's not that kind of unhappy.)

Phryne was sitting on the window bench in the parlor, knee hugged to her chest as she looked out at the garden. The overcast sky couldn't decide if it wanted to rain or not, and had compromised with an intermittent, half-hearted drizzle. The dreary grey twilight outside matched her mood. This wasn't how she'd wanted it to be. She had meticulously planned everything down to the last detail, but the weather didn't care a whit for anyone's plans, even the Honorable Phryne Fisher's.

Lost in an uncharacteristic gloom, she almost missed the movement on the front walk, and only caught a glimpse of the grey-on-grey figure just as it slipped out of her line of sight toward the door. She braced herself to have Mr. Butler send the visitor away — she wasn't in an entertaining mood at the moment. But then she heard his greeting drift in through the slightly ajar parlor doors. 

"Good evening, Inspector." 

Her irritation immediately morphed into something like hope.

"Mr. Butler."

Oh, how she had missed that voice, and the man attached to it, during the long, tedious months in England.

A moment later, the parlor doors opened. "The Inspector to see you, Miss," Mr. Butler said, then stepped out of the way and disappeared.

Jack was still wearing his coat, and was shifting his hat uneasily in his hands. "I can go," he said, nodding back towards the door. "If you'd rather be alone."

Of course he remembered. "No." She rose from her seat and approached him. "No, I wouldn't." She reached out to take his hat. He didn't let it go right away, searching her face. "Please stay,” she reiterated. 

He nodded, and when she tugged on the hat again he released it. He shrugged out of his coat, and allowed her to take that as well.

She hung the coat and hat in their usual places in the entryway, and took a moment to just look at them. Back where they belonged. 

Mr. Butler appeared in the dining room doorway. "Will you or the Inspector be requiring anything else, Miss?"

"No, thank you, Mr. Butler," she said.

“Very well.” He smiled, and disappeared again. 

When she returned to the parlor, Jack's posture was tense and awkward, like he was still unsure whether she actually wanted him there. Dear man. It had been too long. If she had ever doubted that she could commit to him on an exclusive basis, those doubts had been virtually eradicated during her trip to England, and any residual uncertainty disappeared at the sight of him standing in her parlor on this day of all days.

She poured a whiskey for each of them, and returned to her seat on the window ledge, trusting Jack to follow her. He sat down on the piano bench and accepted the tumbler. "I thought you might prefer to be alone today," he said again.

"So did I, until you knocked," she said. "I'm glad you're here."

"You alright?"

She was and she wasn't, but he already knew that, of course. He was giving her an opening if she wanted to talk about it, or a chance to sit in silence if she didn't. "Mother asked me to stay," she said, taking his opening for what it was. "She wanted me to be around for... today. But I wanted to be here. I left in early August. I should have been back last week, but we hit a storm and had to wait it out in Mumbai. I didn't get in until yesterday."

He didn't say anything, but his expression flickered just a bit, and she knew him well enough to see that he was wondering why she hadn't told him she was coming home. He was fighting a battle between being hurt and being resigned, but trying not to show it. He thought she had forgotten him, and unselfishly he’d come here today anyway. A warm affection pushed away some of her despondency. Today wasn't the day to have the talk with him that she needed to have (to whit, that she loved him silly and wanted to spend the rest of her life with him if he was amenable to the idea), but she couldn't let him spend another moment thinking that she hadn't told him because she didn't care. "I wanted to surprise you," she said. "I nearly wrote or telegrammed… it must have been a hundred times. But I waited, because I wanted to see your face when I walked in the door."

"But then your ship was delayed."

"And we arrived the day before…" she trailed off and let him finish the sentence in his own mind. She still couldn't bring herself to say it. Somehow, it almost seemed harder, now that they had found Janey and laid her to rest properly. Phryne reached across to touch Jack's arm, to reassure him that she hadn't forgotten him during her year away. "I wanted to be happy the first time you saw me. I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

"You don't have to explain anything," Jack said with sincerity, and she believed him, but she could also see a hint of relief flash in his eyes, guarded though it still was. Good.

"How did you find out I was back?" She smiled faintly. "Hugh?"

Jack nodded. "He didn't say anything, but the boy still can't keep a secret to save his life."

"Some things never change."

"No."

The silence grew heavy, and Phyne knew they were talking about more than Hugh. But there was time enough to address those issues on a later date; one that carried less baggage. For now, it was time to take comfort in the way things were and had always been. Jack finished the last of his whiskey, and instead of offering him more, Phryne nodded toward the piano behind him. "Would you play for me?"

"Of course." He put his glass down. "Any specific requests?"

She shook her head, and Jack nodded once before turning around on the bench and laying his fingers on the keys. He gathered himself for a moment, and began playing a song that Phryne didn't recognize. It was an achingly beautiful tune — light and airy, but the minor key giving it a subtle undercurrent of melancholy. Much like her current mood. She marvelled at his ability to choose a number that complemented the evening so well. 

"That was beautiful," she said after the final note had died away. "What was it?"

"I haven't come up with a suitable title yet," Jack said, avoiding her eyes.

"You wrote that?"

"Mmm." When he did turn to look at her, he was apologetic. "I don't have a piano of my own," he said. "Mr. Butler was kind enough to let me in to play this one from time to time; I hope that's alright."

"Jack, you’re welcome to play this piano as often as you'd like, especially if you continue to compose such lovely pieces."

It was hard to tell in the dim light, but she thought his cheeks had gone a little red. "That's the only one, I'm afraid. I was never all that good."

Phryne had to disagree with his assessment. Though she had heard plenty of piano players who were far more technically skilled than Jack, she knew of few who were able to craft such an eloquent melody out of an equally limited ability. Jack's song could be played with little difficulty by any middling pianist, but it had a simple elegance and beauty that she rarely heard from more accomplished musicians. "If you should ever choose to write more," she said, "my parlor is ever at your disposal. You don’t even have to ask."

Jack nodded, and then, to cover the moment, turned back to the keys and began playing again, this time a well-known jazz number, albeit with a few of the more difficult passages omitted or simplified. Again, Phryne found herself impressed with his stylistic choices. This wasn't the basic, accessible version found in a music book for learning players — this was Jack modifying a composition himself to fit his skill level in a way that stayed true to the spirit of the piece. A move that, in her opinion, required a far more complicated skill set than that of those musicians who could merely play a lot of notes very quickly. She could have listened to him forever, and vowed that tonight, she would get lost in his music for as long as he would consent to play.

He seemed to understand that on some intuitive level, because no sooner had the one song ended than he began another, and then another. 

"The piano was always Janey's thing," she said softly when he finally paused to give his fingers a rest. "As a child, I never had the patience to sit up straight for hours and practice scales, not when I could be running around outside causing trouble. And then, after she disappeared, I couldn't bring myself to pick it up. It sounds silly, but it felt like a betrayal."

"It doesn't sound silly at all," Jack said.

Phryne continued as if she hadn't heard him. "I love listening to Jane play, though; I was so happy when she showed an interest, like she was carrying on Janey's legacy. And sitting here, listening to you… it makes me feel close to her again. She would have loved your song, too." 

Jack gave her a smile that clearly showed he thought she was humoring him, and went back to playing, _Canon in D_ this time. There was no way Jack could have known it, but that was the last song Janey had learned before she was taken. She had never quite mastered it, and now she never would, but if Phryne closed her eyes, she could imagine it was Janey sitting there beside her, picking away at the dusty old upright — a gift from Aunt Prudence and the only extravagance they’d had in those days; one that Janey had always treasured. 

She didn't realize she was crying until the music stopped and Jack was pulling her into his arms, cradling her head with the same hand that had just created the music that brought her to tears. Her heart felt like it was being crushed in a vice and she clung to him, burying her face in his chest and wondering if it would ever stop hurting this much. 

“It’s alright,” Jack murmured, stroking her hair. “It never goes away, not entirely. But it will get easier, I promise. For now it just has to run its course. It’s alright; let it out.”

Had she said it aloud, or had he simply read her mind? She decided it made no difference; his voice was soothing and his hands were gentle, and she let herself shatter, knowing he would be there to help pick up the pieces when she was done. 

When she had cried herself out, he handed her a handkerchief and she wiped her face, wincing a bit when she saw the remnants of her kohl and lipstick staining the white linen. “Sorry.” 

“I have more.” 

“This isn’t at all how I imagined our reunion would go,” she said with a watery laugh. 

“Nor I,” he agreed. “But I’m glad I could be here.” 

“Me too.” She rested her head on his shoulder and just enjoyed his closeness for a few minutes. After a time, her eyes drifted back to the keyboard. 

“Would you like me to continue?” he asked, following her gaze. 

“Please.” She shifted so he could get up from where he’d joined her at the window, then followed him to the piano bench, wanting to stay close to him. “Would you play your song again?” 

“If you’d like.” 

“I meant it, you know,” she said. “That Janey would’ve liked it.” He smiled at her again, more genuinely this time, and began playing. 

She closed her eyes and listened, feeling his arm brush against hers every so often when he reached for a low note. Phryne wasn't sure she believed in any kind of afterlife, but as the music washed over her, she could almost swear she felt her sister smile. 

_You would like him, Janey,_ she thought. _I wish you could've met him. I miss you. I love you._

_Happy birthday._

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Strictly speaking, after Pachelbel’s death, _Canon In D_ ([YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rNsgHMklBW0)) was lost to obscurity until it was rediscovered and published in 1919, which would have been after Janey was taken. But the writers of the show never put much stock in timelines, so I didn’t either, and took some creative license here because I wanted Jack and Janey to have a classical piece in common. _Canon_ is pretty, most people know it, and it’s uncomplicated enough that it fits in where I imagine Jack’s skill level to be, though maybe with him simplifying some of the more difficult bits. 
> 
> I listened to hours and hours of piano music trying to find something that fit what was in my head for Jack’s song. It paid off — I found one that was absolutely perfect: Elizabeth Naccarato’s _Hotel_ ([YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cTyBNvVmWAQ)). It’s probably a bit more difficult to play than my description of Jack’s abilities would merit, but the mood and feel of the piece match what I was looking for so precisely that I’m going with it. (And since it’s Phryne’s POV, we can chalk it up to her underestimating both the difficulty and Jack’s skill, lol.) Obviously you can imagine Jack’s song sounding however you want it to sound, but if you’re curious about what was in my head, that’s it. (That entire album is utterly gorgeous, by the way, and worth a listen if you’re at all into solo piano music.) 
> 
> Title is taken from Paul Simon’s song _The Cool, Cool River_ ([YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ziob6xgiLjc)).
> 
> EDIT: ~~I can't get the hyperlinks to work, so here are the urls in order:~~ Figured out the problem with the hyperlinks, though AO3 won't let me link directly to Spotify and iTunes, so here are the urls for those two: 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/track/3UEZtVCm3urPh4tBqETjUv?si=jtSktIewRPSE8nRqADLOXQ  
> https://music.apple.com/us/album/hotel/344904497?i=344904512”  
> 


End file.
